Hora Somni
by Old Beginning New Ending
Summary: Many parents were frightened—many more prayed it would come and just go—"Just as it always had," a frail, old grandmother said, her eyes sightless and long-used to peering into the dark since the light had been stolen from her years ago. "They only take what they need." (HiJack/FrostCup Horror) A collection of tales to be taken right before bed. AU
1. First Night

I haven't written this genre in quite a while. So please, bear with me.

The term "hooded figures" was originally from _Welcome_ _to_ _Night_ _Vale_. I just added my own…_twist_ to it.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but a laptop and certain plot elements

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><p>.<p>

"_Do not stand at my grave and weep.*_

_I am not there. I do not sleep."_

.

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><p>It was truly an odd event that plagued the ancient grounds of Berk, a predicament of sorts, an enigma rotting within the old soil. Pester an adult with these matters and one's words would be waved off (<em>distractedly, hurriedly, anxiously<em>), like swatting bothersome flies (_parasites, feasting on the death and decay of carnage wrought, not meant for proper conversation_)—no, it was wholly ignored by the elder populace, shoved far enough into the dark corners of their minds where not even maggots would reach.

_Talk to the children…and they'd sing a different song_.

The children were quite vehement in their belief. One slip, one mention, one breathed and broken prayer against the _curse_ that had befallen them, and they would cluster, commiserate, cower, and _cry_ like their minds had been reduced to broken little fragments, _praying, always praying,_ for the torment to end.

Except one boy.

It was most ironic, after all, that the village runt—the gangly one with freckles dotting every inch of his skin and green eyes of the forest every child was warned against passing during the dead of night, the child of auburn hair and crooked smiles with quivering lips that threatened to slip from his head altogether and splatter on the floor when confronted with the same questions and demands _every winter_—

It was that boy. Hamish, the little "Hiccup" of the village.

(The same Hiccup who everyone knew as the odd little boy, teased, tormented, and ostracized by the other children for _his __**connection**__ with the __**LOATHSOME, VILE, DISGUSTING **__**CREATURES**__ that they __**DAREN'T SPEAK OF**__—!_)

And the same Hiccup that grew to the odd little teen that interestingly (_unnervingly_) became the center of every peer's attention, a fickle sort of gravitation derived from _fear_ and _selfishness_. But what else could they do?

_He was the only one who wasn't afraid._

Years of malice had eventually given away to desperation and pleas for his kept secrets, the key to stop the terrors that settled onto their every waking moment, to rid of the misery and painful (_always, always painful_) delusions. The songs they sang crumbled from their caustic and hateful cries at his strange immunity to sickly-sweet praise and bitter begging.

This continued on to his teen years, now entering his sixteenth year and the sixteenth winter since it first began.

Since _THEY_ first arrived.

.

"Tonight…" Someone—Finnigan "Fishlegs"—finally said. "_It's_ coming tonight…" the boy choked, hands trembling and eyes wide with shock.

Hiccup kept quiet, eyes trained on the flickering flames lapping at the dry wood; the smoke billowed up into the dusky air. His grandfather could once prophesize one's fate (_or so he said_) by staring at the stars and smokes…before his sage old mind gave way to horrific hallucinations when he peered into his own grandson's fortune.

He wasn't quite sure why he suddenly remembered that.

The small eternity stretched on and for the umpteenth time that day, Hiccup looked up to find several pairs of eyes fixed on him.

"It will pass," he mumbled. It always did.

"For how long, Hiccup?" whispered Astrid, blonde locks falling over half her face; the other half revealed dull eyes of blue, a strange and foreboding hint of a demand written within the glow of the fire.

And just like always, Hiccup would cast his gaze to the dancing flames rather than the faces that bespoke of dread long endured. "Thirteen nights, you know that—"

"_HOW LONG DO WE HAVE TO LIVE LIKE THIS?!_" It was unexpected for some, but in the back of Hiccup's mind, he always knew that his cousin Sigurd "Snotlout" was far more volatile than the rest. "_HUH?! IF YOU'RE SUCH GREAT BUDDIES WITH THAT—THAT __**THING**__," _he spat, closing the distance between himself and the stoic teen, large fists grasping the slighter boy's shoulders with cringing force, and Hiccup knew that _this_ was how some people handled their fear, _this _was what those thirteen nights drove a large and confident boy like Sigurd to. _"WHEN HERE WE ARE, __**TRAPPED**__ AND __**HELPLESS**__ LIKE PREY, TRYING TO GET THROUGH __**EACH**__ NIGHT AND KNOWING IT GETS __**WORSE**__ AND __**WORSE**__, R-RE—!"_ When _this _was the aftermath of _years _of this torture had done—irrevocably broken a boy during the deadliest of nights. Hiccup could only look on, as something within the other boy splintered with a resounding shatter; the imagined sound echoed bleakly as his cousin uttered these words:_ "_Ready to _**kill**_ ourselves…_just to end it all…"_ Snotlout dropped his hands to the side, frozen for a moment longer, before turning away in frustration at the empty gaze his cousin sent back.

The chill of the night air rattled their bones, but that did little to explain the shivers down their spines as their shadows stretched and crawled against the ground.

"_Tonight_…" Fishlegs murmured weakly.

Still, Hiccup said nothing.

And Astrid was getting _sick _of it. "_Every year! Every year IT happens! _Every year, we cower in our beds, in our _homes_, where it's supposed to be safe, supposed to be our refuge, and _IT _comes—_!_"

"It's coming…tonight…" the blond boy repeated.

"_It _comes and _terrorizes _us!" Her eyes searched and sought for a _hint _of sympathy from the brunet, a _sign _of relent, a _word _to answer and solve all their problems. "We don't know what It _wants_, Hiccup!" she shrieked, half in grief, half in hatred. "…But you wouldn't know, wo_uld you?"_

And he needn't say a word; the rumors were long-since confirmed: the Hooded Figures that came in the winter nights didn't bother Hiccup at all.

"Hiccup… you don't know what it's like…to be plagued with nightmares for _thirteen_ straight nights…where you _die_ and _kill_ a _thousand_ times for endless hours…" For the slightest moment, Hiccup's hand trembled and his jaw clenched at her words. "And just when you thought you've _finally, finally _woken up…" No, he wouldn't look up—wouldn't look to see such a _strong, unyielding _person like Astrid on the brink of tears at her admittance: "_You're dragged down to hell __**all over again**__…_"

But his reaction was not overlooked by the others—no, it certainly was not. Truth had that strange effect on people, especially truths that were better left untold.

"Y-you don't know what it's like…" Snotlout started calmly, _mournfully_, "To wake up in the middle of the night, not knowing _where_ you are, who _you_ are—_not remembering a thing_—" He caught his breath, swallowing a scream only to shakily start again, "A-and to have your brain c-_crammed_ with _lies BECAUSE THOSE MEMORIES AREN'T __**MINE**__! I __**NEVER**__, __**NEVER**__ DID THAT, I __**NEVER **__**K**__—!" _

"We don't feel anything at all…" the twins, Rachel "Ruffnut" and Trevor "Tuffnut" interrupted, mischievous grins and devil-may-care personas muted with grave reality.

"_Well isn't that just __**great**__ for __**you**__!"_ Snotlout sneered, ready to retaliate as Tuffnut's eyes glowered, angry and frustrated words ready to be thrown like stones—

Until the other twin spoke first. "When I was eight…I grabbed the kitchen knife…" Ruffnut murmured, just loud enough for the others to hear; Hiccup grew nauseated at the crazed grimace stretching across her face. "Just to feel _something_, _anything_ at all…"

No one talked about that incident since it happened, when both twins were sent to the psychiatric ward—one deemed a threat to herself and the other for vehemently and violently refusing to leave his sister's side, repeatedly crying out of demonic "delusions" as the cause of his sister's "accident."

"_Tonight_…" Fishlegs parroted, entranced like a blasted bird mirroring its reflection before he too succumbed; the switch was as fascinating as it was grisly as his face contorted to panic, expression growing haunted. "No, no, not tonight…never, no, _**nononono**_—!" Hiccup gasped as the boy gripped his arm, sheer desperation written on his face. "I—I _can't __**take**__ it! _Hiccup, Hiccup please…" he blubbered, eyes alight with terror and tears, "I thought I was your _friend_, I n-never, _never_ teased you, never _hurt_ you, please_, please, please_—_!_"

"_Fishlegs!_" Astrid called, appalled at the scene as she tried to wrench the other boy off of the brunet.

"I _can't_—no, _no, no, nonono_…" he clung uselessly to the brunet's limp arm as the girl tore him away, leaving Hiccup shocked and speechless. "I can't go through that again…" the boy sobbed. "_Hopeless_…that's how it feels like half the time…the other times, I just feel… feels so _depressed_… I-I can't stop it—I can't _**eat**_, I can't _**sleep**_…not when _**It's**_ there…not when I know its watching me…_**laughing**_ at me underneath that hood." And it occurred to Hiccup then…that this was the first time he had ever seen any of them break down like that. "_Please_, Hiccup…"

It was chaos in his mind after that, whirling torrents of cries and sobs, of pleas and commands, of prayers and curses, and of grief-stricken faces and outraged masks that overlaid the _fear_.

"Hiccup, _c'mon_—"

"_Help us out!—"_

"You're the _only_ one who knows _how_—!"

"We _can't_…we can't take _any more of this_—"

"You _have _to—!"

"_I'm not scared of Them!_" It took a moment for Hiccup to register that the bellow came from him. He sucked in a breath, greedy lungs absorbing the smoke-tainted air. "_Okay_?" He looked about him, the group of teens aghast at his response. "That's it. _That's_ the big secret." Not knowing when he had sat up, the teen once again took his seat by the fire, readying himself for his 'explanation', keeping his gaze straight forward to the flickering fire. "I'm not scared. You know how I cope? I _talk_ to Them. They never talk back, but I'd just say '_hello,' 'goodnight,' _or, '_It's been a year already?'_" He looked around, searched the others' faces and was correct in guessing that they would look to him like he was indeed insane, ready to be tied to a mast and shipped off to unforgiving waters for fear he had truly gone mad. "Yes, as crazy as it is…that's all I do," Hiccup reaffirmed. "I'm not scared of Them, not even when I was little…er." He gave an ironic little chuckle, not bothering to look at their doubting faces from his incredulous reveal. "For God's sake, I even challenged Them to a staring contest once! I won too and laughed when They blinked." He tried to give a small smile at that, but it promptly died at the sight that greeted him.

"_What?"_

"That's _it_?"

"_That's all?!"_

"There _has _to be _more!"_

"You mean to tell me that you're actually _friends_ with IT?!"

Hiccup sighed. "Not exactly." A hollowness welled up within him. "I just don't meet _Them_ with the same hostility you guys do."

And the silence stretched on again; for the other teens, they always knew that Hiccup was an odd one, a bizarre little boy with his head in the clouds, tripping over the sticks and stones he never saw below. But _this?_ _This_ was his guarded secret?

Hiccup's shoulders fell to a slump at the disillusioned looks masking the fear and terror in the air; no matter what he said, no matter how he gave his word to them, Hiccup knew they would be unable to heed his advice. It was hopeless from the beginning and he knew that.

"I need to get home," he murmured, uprooting himself from his spot by the pit. "My Dad'll want dinner by the time he gets back." Without another word, he slipped behind the trees, the slivers of firelight fading away into the darkness of dusk as he disappeared from sight.

No one stopped him.

The silence stretched on, made uneasy by the crackling and spitting of the fire, small embers beginning to give way into the night; there was nothing to be scared of in these woods, despite what they were told when they were children…it was only when the first waves of drowsiness would strike would the forest mutate to something sinister. But none of that could compare to the horrors that awaited them in their own homes.

But surprisingly, something _else _suddenly crossed everyone's minds, filling their thoughts with a weak anxiety, a dim shiver of fear_:_

_How did he know It blinked_?

.

That night, when dinner had been eaten and the plates packed away, when he bid his father a good night and did the same for Toothless, the young hound they kept downstairs, Hiccup took patient but cautious steps to his own room. From the corridor, he heard Toothless give a pitiable whine—long since trained by the boy to restrain his vicious barks during this time of year.

They'd come. No matter what. Every year, without fail. This year would be no different.

At least, that was the learned mantra he kept in his head as he entered his darkened room. For a second, his fingers hovered over the light switch…but fell to his side as he made his way to his bed in near-darkness. From his nightstand, his hands searched for the lamp he kept beside him, fingers trailing and searching across the smooth wood.

He listened softly in the darkness, his own heart beat pulsing calmly as he found the switch, turned the small knob, and a faint, fiery glow illuminated the blackened room.

He then looked to the doorway and found that his door had already closed.

A freezing chill swept through the air and Hiccup knew They were being playful again. He smiled to himself and settled beneath the covers. "Back again, hm?" he called quietly.

Only silence greeted him, a soft storm billowing strands of his hair; it took years of practice not to shiver.

"I appreciate the help," he murmured, gaze settled on the wood of the door. Perhaps if he had been a little more awake or a little more attentive, he would have noticed a shadow hanging overhead.

(And if he had looked just a bit harder, he would have seen that the door was not only _closed…_but it was _locked_ as well.)

It was an old ritual of sorts; Hiccup would look around the room, the glowing filament from the old lamp serving as his guide. His eyes would trail from the left to his windows—latch covered in dust from disuse and glass frosted over with silvery trails of ice—, to the right where the entrance and, adjacent, where closet stood—one door shut tight, the other slightly ajar revealing a grinning darkness that the light could never quite touch—, but he would _never_ look up.

_He knows They __**hate**__ being seen.*_

There was movement from the corner of his eyes and while he would have to entertain his annual guest some time or another, his heart began to beat just a tiny bit faster, distracting his ears from the sounds he had been trying to catch. It was never a good sign when that happened. So he took his chances, arms stretched to the side to grasp the tiny mechanism, fingers momentarily warmed from the bitter cold as his skin brushed against the bulb. He was worn from the day and he hoped that They'd understand.

Darkness enveloped the room, a deceptive tranquility blanketing over the teen's mind like scorching ash masquerading as snow. Before death's brother carried him off, he bade the Hooded Figure a soft, "_Good night_," and subsequently missed the slight sound his ears had been trying to catch:

A shuddering breath, stuttered out in amusement— a secretive sort of _laugh_ that echoed in the dark.

.

When daylight streamed from his window, Hiccup willed his body to relax before slowly rousing from slumber.

He wouldn't find Them in the day, not when they much preferred the night to hide amongst, not when slumber left children vulnerable and weak. Sunlight meant blithe beginnings while moonbeams casted shadows for death to creep along. But that was okay. The first night had come and went, just as in the years before, just as in the years to come.

"_And it'd all go away some day…like waking up from a dream and never knowing what was real or not."_

His mother said that to him once and like everything else of hers, he kept it close to his heart and always in remembrance. He took a glance to his right—

(What he _didn't_ remember was _that_ resting on his nightstand.)

With hesitant fingers, Hiccup plucked the item from its place, nearly dropping the delicate object in shock.

_It was freezing to the touch_.

He recognized it as a ring torque, delicately and artfully crafted in what appeared to be glass, small frost ferns snaking and twisting about the thin, solid material. It glimmered in the light, revealing white fractures trailing across the surface. Something whole, fragile, and shattering all at once.

"_Don't be afraid."_

Yes…she had said that too, long ago, when he was little, before those words were carved down to the very marrow of his bones. Yet, it was a funny sort of thing…whenever he thought about it, something in his chest thudded _just_ _a_ _bit_ harder. Hiccup swallowed and stood from his bed. Green eyes forced their gaze away from the gleaming glass, daring himself to bring his eyes heavenward. And when he did, he forced his heart to slow its cadence.

Nothing.

With a sigh, he busied himself for the day, keeping the trinket with him in his pocket, but never allowing the cold surface to graze his skin.

(It was _acceptance_—not _reciprocation_.)

He exited the room, slipping on the clothes he had worn the previous day and not casting another glance at the closed closet door; his mind was (_thankfully_) elsewhere and nowhere all at once as his fingers slipped from the knob and the wood behind him clicked into place.

.

Snotlout was the first to discover it. And the first to explode when Hiccup wouldn't let him take it. "Are you _**insane**_?!" his cousin breathed, haggard and unhinged. "Are you _trying_ to _protect It_?!"

Hiccup sighed. "I'm not."

"_Hiccup_…" Fishlegs staggered towards him like a parched man in need of water. "This could be our chance…don't you see?! They _never_ leave anything behind—_NEVER." _

"And here comes _your_ Figure and its just _drops_ in with a present?!" demanded Snotlout."While we…we have to _suffer_ through this for another _twelve_ _days_?!"

Astrid brushed past him and Hiccup could tell by the dark rings around her eyes that she took no heed to his words at all. "Hiccup…this could end _all _of this. If we show this to the adults, they can't say this is all just a bad dream, not anymore when we have _physical evidence_…" Her mouth quivered as the first trickles of excitement poured from her, of some saving grace that she could hold and _hope _for. "If we get this to Gothi, she can help— Hiccup, we finally have _proof _that they're _real—!_"

(_But they don't __**know**__—no, they __**can't**__ know—__**nothing**__ can stop Them, __**nothing at all**__, nothing but passing seasons and hours and there are just some monsters in the dark that not even mommies and daddies can **protect** you from_—)

"—I _**CAN'T**_," he bit out, eyes flaring in anger and infuriation (_misery_ and _despondency_).

The girl recoiled, as if struck. "Wh-what are you saying…" And Hiccup could see it in her face right now—the _fear_, the _horror_, the _realization_ that there was nothing he'd do to stop it_…nothing at all._

"I'm saying…" he sucked in a breath, feeling the cold, midday air filling his lungs, a sharp and bitter stabbing in his chest. The brunet shook his head and turned to them once more, numbly repeating the same words that had been reverberating in his mind the whole day. "_I'm saying that it's rude to throw away a gift." _

"You…you've sided with _It_…" Fishlegs uttered, face contorted with disbelief.

"No, _I'm_—!" But Hiccup couldn't say it—_could never say it_—because as long as he _obeyed_… "I'm leaving." _Nothing_ _would_ _hurt_ _him_.

When he did so, nobody stopped him.

Some time later, as the group huddled together for warmth, an apathetic Tuffnut mumbled against the chilling winds, "He's acting…_stranger_ today, isn't he…"

Nobody could respond.

.

The nights came and went in quiet and anxious cycle—_no it was not __**fear**_, _he told himself __**repeatedly**__, __**vehemently**__—_but for this was a different sort of feeling. It was suffocating silence, a deaf ringing in the dead of dusk, not a single phrase breathed between, not a gasp heard from the other, not even a shadow passing overhead or anymore staring contests with those piercing eyes, glowing from behind the shady visage of Their cowl when he'd finally catch Them, hanging from the rafters or casting images from the window. For the first time since he was young…They wouldn't come near him at all.

It was a new game, Hiccup reasoned, because every morning, a sheer trail of ice and rime covered the floor around his room, growing _closer_ and _closer_ to his bed every night. It _must_ be a new game…or They could be growing _upset_—

Because throughout those past twelve nights, not _once _had Hiccup worn the torque.

But it'd be all over soon anyways.

The moon grew full, the skies smeared in inky blackness, and the winds howled that thirteenth night. During dinner, he wasn't exactly sure why or what made him do such a thing, but he embraced his father before the bewildered man heartily returned his hold and retreated to the master bedroom. Something coiled in his gut at the astonished look in his father's eyes…especially at that small trickle of worry. He did the same with Toothless, getting down on his knees and holding the hound close. Toothless let out a whine and pawed at the leash restraining him.

Hiccup gave the hound an affectionate pat and murmured a "_Good_ _night_," before walking down the darkened corridors.

Despite Toothless's hard training, his fierce loyalty towards the boy resounded through the house as the dog gave a mournful, heartbreaking howl.

.

Hiccup had taken to changing in the bathroom; a week prior to the annual visits, he would pack his clothes in a clean hamper but made sure to ration his attires carefully; They didn't like to be _disturbed_ any more than They liked to be _seen_. Hiccup tugged his jacket off, frowning when he had to carefully fish the torque from his pocket.

It was still eerily cold, but had warmed significantly since the second day. He eyed the trinket, musing if it really _was _a gift…

(_Or a __**trap**__?)_

He shook the thoughts from his head and continued to dress. It was the last night and after all this, it'd be over for another three hundred and fifty-two days. Tugging his shirt over his head, he took a casual glance at the mirror—

—_and bit his tongue to keep from crying out_.

The coppery taste filled his mouth and Hiccup gave a hard swallow, a nauseas sensation flooding his system when he dared to look again:

There was nothing there but his own reflection.

And it _had_ to be his mind, _yes his mind_, because _They_ never left his room, _They _never followed him outside, _They _only did that when you _foolishly tried to run, tried to escape, tried to __**anger **__them, _and _that_ couldn't be the case because _Hiccup—__**Hiccup **_always, _always_ followed the rules, _always _played by this game, _never got __**hurt**__ again_ and this was _her_ promise to him, _her words that he followed and lived by, _and—

He remembered her words then, remembered the words of his mother, who warned never, _ever,_ to _**displease**_ them. Hiccup gazed at the torque and experimentally bent the material; it gave way to his touch easily. Heartbeat accelerating, pulse thrumming against his veins, Hiccup ignoring the sickening feeling in his stomach as he slipped it around his throat and curved it closed. Hiccup wasn't surprised to see that it was a perfect fit.

He'd wear it to bed. If this would satisfy Them, then he'd have a whole year to decide what to do with this trinket…

But he wouldn't think about that now. Not when he had a _guest_ to entertain and his mother did say to _never _keep them _waiting_, _never _to _upset_ them.

_(It was __**such**__ a shame that he forgot that his mother also said to __**never**__ show them __**gratitude**__ either.)_

_._

It was quiet in the room when he went to bed, and _cool_— not _cold_. He didn't really notice however, as the torque was cold as ice and nipped the skin around his neck. It began to suffocate him just a bit but he restrained himself in showing any sort of discomfort. No, that'd be _rude_. It would be enough, though, to have the torque peeking from his shirt collar, curled around his flesh in possession.

So Hiccup flicked off the lights and tried not to stare too much at his clock, radiating in neon green, reading 10:21 PM with unspoken reassurance. Less than two hours to go. Curling into the blankets as the cool glass chilled his skin, he breathed a, "Good night," as his eyes slipped shut.

But before Hiccup went to sleep, he swore he heard another voice call softly to him, as brittle as words carried by wintry gales, "_Good_ _night_..."

.

He feigned sleep for several hours. When he'd begin to drift off, _something_ kept startling him awake—an overwhelming _emptiness_ and _loneliness_ that pulled him from innocent dreams before they transfigured into twisted _nightmares_, the biting cold piercing through the covers, gnawing at his skin, settling into his very heart.

He glanced at the clock, exhaustion coating his mind and silently egged the little digits to grant him reprieve. When the clock finally, _finally _read midnight, he breathed a sigh of relief and his eyes fluttered closed— the thirteenth night was _over_…

—and yet, it was still so, so, _so_ cold…

He felt it then, a wintry air, permeating the room, freezing his skin, the little torque around his neck—_tightening_, _grasping, and biting_ his throat—and for the very first time, he nearly forgot everything his mother told him before she passed away: _never_, _**ever**_ show _**fear**_. Her words murmured and whispered, cried and shrieked in his head, her voice growing pained and distorted and Hiccup knew, _Hiccup knew_ the game had changed, _knew_ they weren't playing the same rules anymore.

But he willed his heart to stop giving away those tell-tale signs, stop struggling, stop to figure things out, to _**FUCKING**_ _**STOP**_ _**PANICKING**_ even as his bed dipped from the force of another's weight, even when the torque began to choke him just a little bit more as he tried to even out his breathing because _no, no, no she __**promised**__, she gave her word that They'd never harm him,__** They'd **__NEVER LAY A **SINGLE**_—

— But she was wrong…for the first time in one horrifying moment, **IT** _touched_ him...gently, ever so, trailing a skeleton-thin finger, from his cheek to his jaw, tenderly, lovingly, cruel ice-blues glimmering with mute malice from behind the shadows of its veil at the sight of Hiccup's owlish eyes, devoid of any sort of emotion...but **IT** could taste it in the air...the smallest inklings...of _**fear**_.

And Hiccup knew, knew **IT** was growing _angry_; the air began to chill him to the very core, the winds outside were howling, and Hiccup felt so dizzy as oxygen became scarce, as **IT** crept closer and closer to him, trapping him where he laid, even as the clock ticked _closer_ and _closer_ to the thirteenth hour, and he tried so _desperately_ hard to stop its anger from surfacing, mind frantically scouring for what to do, _any idea what to do because this was __**wrong, WRONG, SO VERY WRONG**__, it wasn't supposed to do this, it wasn't supposed to happen, They __**NEVER **__STAYED LONGER THAN THE THIRTEEN NIGHTS, __**NEVER **__SUPPOSED TO __**TOUCH **__HIM—_

But that sort of thinking would get him killed (_faster_).

Instead, he wrenched his thoughts away from the panic and disorder; it was _angry_, he knew…and what was a child to do other than to seek _ITs_ _**forgiveness**_? He leaned into ITs touch, eyes falling shut, and _calmed_ himself, calmed himself even as sharp nails carelessly raked gashes across his cheek, tiny beads of blood forming burgundy dots against his freckles, because at least now, at least now the winds stopped roaring and the moonlight stopped dancing to reveal shadowed demons in his room...

_At least now, __**IT**__ wasn't displeased._

And it'd be okay, he told himself, it'd be okay as long as he followed every rule his mother told him, ever since that first night he met cruel eyes of blue, even as the words collected dust in his mind and some of the phrases were smeared with childish fears, traumas, and woes and became illegible with time...

(—_like the little tidbit that his mother told him, just before he closed his eyes to sleep and just before he awoke to find her heart had stopped beating some minutes later—_

_**"Never give them a reason to stay."**__)_

And so Hiccup swallowed his fear, pushing it towards that place of nightmares that he was only ever allowed to visit after the Figures were gone for another year, and dared to cling to _**IT**_, mouth shut and thought of his mother...his dear mother whose advice never failed him, who he felt protected him through these nights when memorized prayers abandoned his mind, when mindless mantras and self-utterances would not suffice, who could be watching over him, right now, curled up against the very _thing _she had warned him of, the very _thing_ she was devastated to learn that had entered her own _HOME _and took _INTEREST _in _HER_ _boy—_

_But none of it was working anymore._

Hiccup didn't know when the Figure started rocking him back and forth, soothing and tenderly like one with a small child; the neckpiece no longer bothered him and he barely flinched as spidery fingers turned the torque around his neck, reversing the roles of the front and back, nails like five little blades digging and trailing scratches against his skin. And all at once, the figure stopped moving. Wiry arms still held the boy close but a dubious serenity had settled onto the creature, a strange sort of contentment that wrought complete quiet, leaving Hiccup's mouth dry and stomach in knots as dread once more started to mount.

Because if there was anything he _knew _from _experience_ with IT…it was that _utter_ _silence_ was _**never**__ a good thing. _And it truly _was _insane—_something_ like a seed of madness planted in his mind after _years, desperate years of __**forcing his fear down like a bitter drug**__, trapping his emotions and thoughts and __**carefully**__ locking them away so __**IT'd **__never __**find **__out_—but her _rules, __**her rules **__WEREN'T WORKING BECAUSE IT WAS __**STILL**__ HERE, IT __**WOULDN'T **__**LEAVE**__, THIS WASN'T WHAT WAS __**SUPPOSED**__ TO __**HAPPEN**__—_and this _game _didn't have the same _rules _anymore; _**IT**_ wasn't singing the same song anymore.

'_Nothing makes sense…nothing at all,'_ something cooed in his mind…

And that _something in his mind_ caused him to commit the worst, possible thing he could have done at that moment:

_He looked up._

The sight that he met _would_ have plagued his nightmares for years to come.

_ITs_ hood was lowered and luminous moonbeams revealed a _boy_, hauntingly beautiful with pale, corpse-like skin, and youthful face…and _ITs_ _**smile**_..._ITs_ _hideous_ smile with too sharp, too many teeth, glimmering and white, stretching too far, too wide that _ITs_ _skin_ began to crack around the edges...and _ITs_ _**eyes**_...ice-blue like distorted mirrors shining with what could have been _**love**_ and _**affection**_ now _tainted_ and _twisted_ to shine back with _manic_ _**obsession—**__the same eyes that had __**WATCHED HIM AS A CHILD, WATCHED HIM WITH THAT** **SAME, RAVENOUS GAZE FOR ALL THESE YEARS—**_

That sight _WOULD_ have plagued Hiccup with terrors forevermore, mind irreversibly broken, even now as he gasped and cried, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, a hoarse desperation bleeding into his words as he chanted his forgotten prayer, "_No, no, no, no_…" eyes never leaving the haunting image of this _**SICK, SICK MONSTER BEFORE HIM**_—

Except Hiccup did the absolute worst thing he could have _ever_ done:

_He screamed._

A hungry mouth covered his, teeth ripping through tender flesh, choking the swan song with blood and ice, gripping his vulnerable throat before the last little note sank into the heavy air, drowning the boy with a travesty of a kiss as darkness swallowed him completely…

.

The whole village scoured every inch of Berk for any sign of him.

Search parties left at the brink of dawn and hiked the mountains, roamed the plains, and plundered the forests for any sign of the lost boy until the hours bled into the night.

This continued on for months.

But even as the seasons changed, the poor father—lost his _dear_ wife and now his _beloved_ son—continued to pray, continued to hope, that some day, some way, his boy would come back to him…

Whether in the form of the gangly and eccentric teen he both loved and could never quite understand…or in the form of bones he could lie to rest in a grave beside his wife's. He _always_ _prayed_ his boy would come back to him.

But that day, he _prayed _for another reason.

Because that day, after months of refusing to enter, refusing to move an object out of place, refusing to _touch_ a single thing until his boy was found…Sten Haddock entered the lonely little room, still cluttered with his son's drawings and books, disheveled as the day he first came inside and frantically searched every nook and cranny of the house for his son when the boy didn't come down for breakfast that morning.

He knew he wouldn't find anything there; there was no sign of a break-in anywhere in the home. But he braved his steps towards the silent quarters, heart dropping to the pit of his stomach in both dread and desperation.

He looked everywhere—except one place:

_Under the bed._

And what else was he to do but search where none have yet, despite the impossibility? His boy was thin, but he wasn't small anymore. There was no way he could have fit between the base of the frame and the hardwood floor, no way he'd find his boy in there, miraculously unharmed and just a little bit cramped, no way he'd be able to solve his boy's disappearance and his own heartbreak by hefting the heavy bed frame out of the way and to the side to find some sort of clue as to where his boy might be…

_And he was right_.

The sight uncovered by the man left him unable to utter a word, unable to wrench his eyes away, unable to do anything but to allow his knees to give way and to crumple onto the floor, face etched with unspeakable horror.

On the wood beneath the bed were the remnants of a gaping void, crusted with drips and drops of blackened and coppery fluids that congealed through the months, encircling the splintering cracks of the fissure engraved onto the floorboards. There were scratch marks littering the floor and any seasoned hunter would know that they were made by two separate entities: one small and fraught, blunt nails and delicate fingertips bloodied through the grapple…and the other of a _predator_—sharp and unforgiving claws dragging its prey down to its lair, evident from the large gashes across the wood, nearly overlapping the smaller marks…

But that wasn't what made the grown man nearly break down and cry.

It was these words, carved onto boards like manic smiles on monstrous faces, mere inches away from the ruin of the sealed abyss; a warning, a decree, forever ingrained upon the home and in the father's mind, dirtied by blood and tainted with a sinister impression that not even the flies would feast upon:

_**HE'S MINE.**_

* * *

><p>.<p>

"_Do not stand at my grave and cry._

_I am not there. I did not die."_

_._

* * *

><p>Huh. Well that didn't go quite as planned and I apologize for the format but uhm...emphasis, haha... Either way, I hope you enjoyed it.<p>

**Important Note**: Torques, or torcs, are made with metal and possibly represented power and nobility in Viking culture, as it was with the Celts they battled; **Hiccup was mistaken**. What Jack gave him was not a torque but a _**collar**_, signifying **ownership**. (That's why he turned it around.)

*=The poem in the beginning and end are the opening and ending lines of **Mary Elizabeth Frye**'s lovely poem "_Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep_," which I totally took out of context. Really, it's very sweet actually.

***=** from two-sentence horror stories on reddit: "Don't be scared of the monsters, just look for them. Look to your left, to your right, under your bed, behind your dresser, in your closet but never look up, she hates being seen."

**Child and Hooded Figure:**

Astrid – Sandman (Fear, Nightmares, and Lasting Slumber)

Snotlout – Tooth Fairy (Fear, Memories, and Falsehood)

Ruffnut and Tuffnut – Santa Clause (Fear, Apathy/Horror – what I deem antonyms of _Wonder_)

Fishlegs – Easter Bunny (Fear, Hopelessness, and Depression)

Hiccup – Jack Frost (Fear, Loneliness, and [subjected to] Possessiveness)

(What did I just do?)


	2. Lacrimosa Lullaby

A side story to **Hora Somni** so haha…it might be best if you read that one before reading this one ^^; This sort of explains some things about the Hooded Figures.

**Aangelik** asked for an explanation in Hora Somni about Hiccup's mother and I decided to explore that a bit more.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but a laptop and certain plot elements.

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_On earth this desire is often called "love." In Hell I feign that they recognize it as hunger. _

_– C.S. Lewis_

_._

"Hush, my sweet…"

"Baby, close your eyes…"

"Darling, go to sleep"

"Don't listen to Their lies…"

"_To my son…"_

"Please, don't shiver…"

"Please, don't be afraid…"

"They can hear your heart quiver…"

"Even as you prayed."

"_Do not listen"_

"Remember—always remember:"

"—Even when I am not here—"

"That every December…"

"You must not show fear."

"_To this tired old song…"_

"Oh, my poor, precious baby…"

"You must laugh, you must play!"

"But do not make them angry…"

"And choose wisely of what you say…"

"_And believe it will keep you safe."_

"Cover your ears; death embraces belief"

"As wicked words can lead you astray;"

"Do not show thanks; do not show grief;"

"And never give them a reason to stay."

"_It will not. It cannot."_

"Oh my dear, darling boy…"

"Your eyes grow heavy by my song…"

"Sleep now and dream of innocent joy…"

"They are coming soon; They won't be long…"

.

"_Oh, my darling son…"_

.

"I'm sorry…I can't make Them stop…"

"I'm sorry…I can't make things right."

"I can still remember how my heart dropped…"

"When your father opened our door that one winter's night…"*

"_Had I only known!"_

"A simple act that lead to so much more—"

"He doesn't remember—he doesn't know…"

"That when he opened the door…"

"He let Something in apart from wind and snow…"

"_Of these cruel games They play!"_

"A heartless soul and eyes of glass—"

"Eyes that found your darling face…"

"And sought to steal you from my grasp"

"And to Their devil's embrace."

"_I'm sorry—"_

"Hush now darling…it will be okay…"

"They cannot hurt me and you will be safe."

"I'll be here with you come the next day."

"And sing again after you wake…"

"_I was wrong—!"_

_._

_The road to hell is paved with good intentions._

_- Proverb_

_._

* * *

><p>*= old legend that some creatures cannot enter a threshold without being "invited" in. On a cold winter night, Sten Haddock awoke to vigorous knocking on his front door. When he opened to check the source of the sound, he found nothing but howling winds and snow. <em><strong>Or so he thought<strong>. _

Confusing? Sorry haha…


	3. Second Night

**Second Night: Lure **

The original concept of Hora Somni was to make a 13-part series of horror stories revolving Jack and Hiccup. This will be the second installment. Again, forgive me: I haven't written in this genre for quite some time. Dear God, what have I done.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but a laptop and certain plot elements.

* * *

><p>.<p>

_Written where my bones lay:_

"_In the end, I was the prey"_

.

* * *

><p>He plagued Jack's dreams.<p>

_Light_—patient and alluring, in its own way. It was like one of those anglerfish that lurked deep in the oceans where sunlight couldn't reach, bobbing that ridiculous glowing bulb over smaller fish before meeting the hungry teeth that laid wait in the dark.

Except…this wasn't some ugly fish.

And what he took—much more _precious_ than a few small pieces of prey.

He took _**children**__._

Took them—in the dead of night when such a _strange _spell fell over the people of his town, a lasting _slumber _that only lifted in the early beams of sunrise, the smallest rays of dawn kissing their cheeks and scattered the trickles of sun through windows and cracks along the doors—

But it was too late then.

Parents would race to the beds and erupt in sobs at the missing figures of beloved sons and daughters, families of blood and land huddled together to share in their _fear _and _frustration_—

But not _loss. _No, not a soul here believed they would never see their darling children again.

Because they knew where to look—knew where they'd find them—among the sprawling mass of verdure and towering trees of the woods, found among the fallen leaves and moist dirt that would cake their nightclothes, hair, and skin that naught but a quick wash would rid them of—the whole panic of the affair dissipating come noon while only the lingering anxiety settled in the community, leaving many scratching their heads, other to pray in the quiet moments, and many more to keep an eye on their children and _what_ came in contact with them—

_What _came to seek them.

_Oh, ask the children!_—one might suggest—but not a soul in this town would dare try.

**(Not again.)**

The children, though returned to their families, not a scratch on their skin or a bruise on their bodies and though at first the parents rejoiced at finding them unscathed and unharmed were very quick to find that their _darling _little ones, the _ones _they **failed **to keep safe—

_Weren't __**right**_**.**

That was the only way Jack could describe them, anyways.

It was the _right_ child—birthmarks and blood can't lie, oh no. But it wasn't the _same _child. It wasn't the same child the day before. And they never would be.

Some don't _speak_, some don't _cry_, some don't _smile_; some become explosively _angry_ and some don't even remember their parents' _faces_—something was _wrong. _After they were taken, many couldn't sleep and many couldn't be left alone for very long, lest there be…_complications_ in the household. Complications that Jack was barred from knowing and banned from telling.

Many parents were frightened—many more prayed it would come and just _go_—

_Just as it always had_, a frail, old grandmother said, her eyes sightless and long-used to peering into the dark since the light had been stolen from her years ago. _**They only take what they need.**_

But Jack wasn't so sure of that. Neither were the clusters of _angry, irritated, __**fearfulDESPERATE **_adults of the town. How could they sit back while their children were spirited away with parts of them _missing_?

So they bolted their doors, spread salt across the floor, rooted themselves on their children's bedside while others kept vigilant watches well into the night, as twilight faded to dusk and with dusk to dawn.

Yet it never failed.

((_He _never failed.))

Bolts came undone, lying innocently idle come the inspection of the next day, the salt left indentations from the child-sized prints, tracking all the way to the front of the door, and parents jolted awake, as though some immediate instinct warned them too late—_much too __**late**__—_of their lowered guard, that they had failed their own kin, _that someone had __**stolen**__ into their own homes in the middle of the night to __**take**__ their __**children**__—_

It happened. With every night of every victim.

_Funny_ though…because Jack would that while the parents and the watchmen stationed diligently every mile or so fell to slumber, the folks next door kept awake just fine.

Or, it might've been _funny_, had Jack not learned that little tidbit when he looked out his window that night.

.

He had kept watch—his own sister was tucked away in her bed, looking up at Jack some hours ago with such trust in her big, bright eyes, and Jack _knew_ he couldn't let her down. He promised his mother that he'd take the first shift of the night—her own room mere feet away from his sister's just in case.

((Jack prayed there'd never be a _case _to begin with.))

He was almost grateful for these night because they were _quiet_ in his own home—not the tense kind that kept him on the edge of his seat for debilitating hours as fatigue and worry assaulted his nerve-wracked brain, but the kind where the moon and stars shone like a cavalry in armor, sentinels up in the sky that afforded some reprieve from the unseen monsters that lurked in the blackness.

And it was with that little thought that Jack darted his tired eyes away from the still form of his sister, rolled up in her blankets, snug as a bug or whatever overused, woebegone adage long escaped from Jack's memory and really—it was _awful_, it was _loathsome_ to think—but Jack was _tired_. He was _tired_ of waiting in the dark, _tired_ of fretting each and _every _night—because he _loved _his sister, without a doubt—

_But he was __**tired**_. Couldn't someone understand?

((Children were taken—yes, but in a way, it was everyone _else _who suffered because _who dared _to leave their child _abandoned _and _lost _and though it was _futile_ they'd have to keep trying, and trying, and _**trying **_because that's what adults did, right? If there was something they couldn't solve—they'd carry the burdens themselves, out of honor, out of dignity, or maybe because they couldn't _stand _to see the fear written so clearly in those eyes—like they had _failed _in every way that they couldn't even hold a child's fragile _hope _in their hands.))

And Jack was tired. So tired that he stood by the windowsill, the pale rays washing over his form as his gaze aimlessly flitted back and forth between the solemn skies and the shadow-sprawled earth. And it could have been a trick of his mind, hungry for sleep, dazed with confusion, and roiling with the conflict that only surfaced during the quiet hours of the night afforded him—it was _so, so _easy to wave it off—a hallucination borne from _paranoia_, not uncommon nowadays with the populace.

But Jack _swore _he was no longer _simply __**imagining**_—not with the eerie wisp of _fire _dancing some yards away—not with the curls of _smoke _smothering the grounds of the house next door—and for one _heart-stopping moment _Jack feared the house was _on __**fire**_**—**but in the next few moments, Jack was proven wrong.

_It was much, __**much **__**worse**_.

Because there was still a flicker of lamplight on and Jack could _see _his dear aunt—Mrs. Bennett_—_ outlined from the orange glow by the window and he saw her suddenly go still and slump forward in her seat as the eerie tendrils curled up beside her from the windowpane, a _frightening_ surge of the smoke drawing her into an embrace until her movements suffocated.

And Jack—_oh _Jack should have screamed for help—should-haveshouldhave_shouldhave_. But then there was another _**presence**_ that he had not noticed until it _**moved **_from the corner of the small field of vision Jack was given.

The teen held his breath, statue-still so not as to draw attention to himself. If he could see _It—_then _It _could _definitely_ see _him_ as that _Something _brushed past his aunt's quiet form and towards her _**CHILDREN'S **__**BEDS**_—

Jack couldn't breathe. He jumped as a light flashed in the house, brighter than oil-licked flames, and just for a second, he caught the silhouette of a tiny figure sluggishly moving towards a _larger_ shadow. The incandescence wavered before dying to a chilling glow, but still enough for Jack to see _It_ sweep past the glass window before halting in its movements.

_Dread—_pure _dread _settled like a stone in his stomach. Jack felt the blood freeze in his veins as he visibly saw the figure turn, facing the window—_**facing **__**Jack**_.

_It saw me_ Jack registered as the willowy figure stood, deathly still. Hellfire seemed to flash in an angry burst before every light went silent, enveloping the house in utter darkness.

Something strange washed over Jack—was it fear? Yes, but _something_ else too, something he couldn't quite name but could only vaguely follow.

_Move_ it told him. And he did.

.

That night was the night Jack came to find that it wasn't _what _was taking the children, but a _who_. It was also that night that Jack found it was a _He_—

Or, at the very least, _It _resembled a _He_.

Because he caught _him —_and it was odd, so very odd, how Jack finally had a face to pin these disappearances, these sleepless nights, and these _worries _and _anxieties _that befell their little town like a plague—but he _had _him, found the man, _boy _Jack corrected, as he made his way silently up the peak of a hill, his cousin, little Sophie Bennett trailing after him like a weary puppet as she stumbled along the grass with her nightdress dirtied and knees raw from tipping over in that drunken way her feet danced because it was _awfully_ hard to make out the exposed roots and little rocks and holes on the ground when she had been so, _so _focused on the light that danced before her.

And _**God **_it was wrong—so **wrong **but Jack could only watch on with a sickening _fascination _as the dark figure kept beckoning to her with billowing flames, a lull of _light _that seemed to tug the child forward—a startling and _lurching _motion that suited chains and shackles than anything else.

But Jack crept after them anyways. Holding his breath as he tied the cloth tighter over his nose and mouth lest the other boy use the gas again, he stalked his way towards the pair, ducking behind anything and everything available around him, hoping his movements weren't nearly as loud as his heartbeat seemed to be. But as the boy edged his way to the forest, the boy stilled and Sophie collapsed to the earth without so much a sound; in her stead, Jack let out a gasp.

_A noisy one at that. _

Because the boy definitely seemed to hear it as he began to _turn_, not seeming the least bit surprised that Jack had been tailing them this entire time and a thousand thoughts fired at once: Jack wasn't sure what he was expecting—a monstrous figure with a too-wide mouth with savage _teeth_ with _crazy _eyes or a shadow with a form but **without a face**, or maybe even a _mask_ that hid his identity because there was always a possibility that maybe this _thing_ was _human_ after all; maybe he was some psychopath with a penchant for the innocent, or a _cult _follower who did some lunatic rituals on these kids that made them _**not right**_—but none of these things were really helping Jack because he was just one teenager and the guy had both Sophie and some strange metal rod that could light itself _on fire_ and he _really _didn't know what he was up against—

But when Jack _did _see his face—

Oh _no_… Not monstrous at all. Not a faceless entity or a psychotic beast with smiling fangs and frightening eyes. He definitely wasn't _human_ either.

Because Jack had _never _seen a human look so…_ethereal_ before. Under firelight, the boy seemed _delicate _in a haunting way, body lithe and dressed _strangely _like some ceremonial garb, auburn hair wind-tussled and appearing—so _young_—maybe a few years younger than Jack going by the boy's apparent stature now that he was standing still. But oh, his _eyes—those_ told a story. They _seemed_ human, a rich and deep shade of green almost luminescent under moonlight, like ancient forests on this land, older than civilizations that came and crumbed under time's oppressive company. They stared, blankly, at Jack as though _waiting_.

And when Jack came forward, those eyes sparked with _curiosity_ at once.

_Closer_ something murmured and Jack himself didn't realize he took a step forward.

But as Jack drew nearer, knots tied themselves in his belly, shivers racked up his spine, his breathing grew shallow and his throat itched to scream, every single _**instinct **_he held telling him quite clearly to **run. **

Because this _boy_…he wasn't _human_—no matter how he _looked_, no matter how he _seemed, _not matter how his _**eyes **_tried to say otherwise. Jack felt it down to the very marrow of his bones, especially as those green irises narrowed with something _like _irritation but flared with _impatience _and muted _**rage**_.

_It _wasn't _**human**_.

And maybe—maybe it was best that he actually _listened _to those God-given instincts for once but he _couldn't—_not with his cousin still under the other's hold, not while he could still _save _her like he had wanted—but was that what he was _really _trying to do? Because as he stood there, _alone _in the dead of night, with the boy before him and _was he coming closer because Jack hadn't taken another step after the first five and had he __**moved**__ just now?__**—**__moved __**closer and close and closerclosercloser **__and why, __**why **__couldn't _Jack just _**FUCKING step BACK, RUN AWAY **_because the boy was right in _front_ of him and _oh he was __**beautiful **_with that bored smile but _eyes _alight with something like _**interest**_ and—

_This isn't good_ Jack thought, as the boy turned to fetch something on is person, neck craning to his side and _that _was when Jack caught a glint of it—

A _collar_, draped along the base of his neck, curling around the flesh in possession.

And that might've been the last thought Jack had right before a fistful of _red_ _powder _was flung into his eyes, a curse on his lips as he staggered backwards, coughing behind the cloth and waving the air frantically before him. Before blinking the stinging pain away from his eyes, voice half-ready to alert half the town just what a "_fucking_ _bastard_" the other boy was, he staggered back as he took in the sight of the empty field.

_Impossible _seemed to be the fitting word here. Because Jack had only been blinded for a second—too short of a time for such a skinny creature to carry away a growing thing like Sophie—

((_But that was the key word, wasn't it? __**Creature**__._))

Jack shivered and contemplated approaching the woods.

((But it was _dark_ and even the trees seemed to consume every ounce of moonlight that fell upon them—))

A heavy _guilt _dropped to the bottom of his stomach. He _failed_ her. Worse yet, could he even come forward with what he just saw? A _boy _who snuck into houses at night and summoned some kind of gas to put the adults to sleep and then puts the kids in some kind of mindless trance as he lead them straight to the forest. Oh, and despite all that was going on, Jack was the only one who spotted him after all this time. _Strange_, isn't it?

Sure…it might've worked—_might've—_with someone else.

Jack, though? With _his _reputation?

No one would believe him anyways— they'd let that strange boy slip right through their fingers and angrily point them towards Jack for even mentioning it. Besides, while Jack was sure it was the boy _taking _those kids, he wasn't the one _needing _them, _using _them. The collar flashed through his mind, along with the boy's fascinati_—__**fascinated **_eyes.

Shaking his head, Jack felt his own heart jump at the memory. No, he'd hunt the monster himself.

.

Sophie was fine the next morning. In fact, his aunt said with confusion in her eyes that both Sophie and Jamie slept well in their own beds last night.

He nodded, eyes deprived of sleep, nervously giving the kids a smile as Jamie waved, a _That's good, take care! _slipping past Jack's lips as he walked away, passing by little Sophie as she gave him a toothy grin, not a strand of hair out of place, not a panic in the town, and not a search in the woods this morning.

It was a _good _thing.

And yet—_why_ was it that Jack could only rest his eyes for a few seconds before a _burst _of red flooded behind his eyelids and a phantom of _green, green _eyes invaded his vision.

.

Oh no, he can't _breathe_ a word about this to anyone—anyone else would just _blindly _go off and _tell _the adults—

((_**Like they haven't FUCKED UP enough by letting him into their homes in the FIRST place—**_))

And _He'd _escape—this Fairytale Monster that showed up that next night some houses down Jack's own home, a look thrown over his shoulder, _taunting_ the teen as he caught Jack staring by the window once again—

((_Teasing him, calling him, __**baiting **__him—_))

And what was Jack to do but follow? Down to the edge of the forest, the watchmen slunk in their own seats in deep slumber, as **useless **as they've ever been but Jack couldn't think about that now, not with that strange creature giving him an equally _strange _and _coy_ look of _Oh? You came?_

And of course, Jack could only respond with a shrug of _You asked me to; of course_ and there might've been the slightest curve of the other's lips, the smallest quirk of amusement as those _damned, _green, green eyes regarded him with silence.

.

He asked the other why he was doing this.

Some nights ago, when the hid behind the clouds and when Jack felt like it was beginning to become a ritual or sorts—find this boy before he reached the woods and the child would be spared. It was a good thing, Jack guessed, but he was losing sleep over this and neither his mother nor his schoolmaster were very happy—

But he can't help it anyways because even when he did catch the briefest of sleeps, he _dreamed _of those green eyes and those sly almost-smiles and his heart felt like it would pound right of out of his chest when the strange boy haunted him in both his day-dreams and his deepest thoughts.

But when he finally voiced this, the strange little Myth that Jack came to think of him as,

((Because that's what he was, wasn't it? A little _story_ people tell their children before bed and called them such because he had _never_ been seen through an adult's eyes despite how his presence remained so strongly with the children he _captured_—))

His pretty green eyes seemed to dull for just a second before a hesitant hand came to rest on the _**collar **_around his neck.

It was…a strange feeling.

But Jack could almost sympathize.

.

He swore he heard him _laugh_ once—just once.

Jack was late that night—struggling to break out of his mother's scrutiny after the he was caught out of the house after dark.

She had been in _hysterics _and Jack couldn't help but feel a bit hysterical himself. She didn't _know_ what kind of good he was doing—that he was _saving _those kids—

Hell…maybe in some way, he was saving his little monster too.

The thought startled him. He called the other boy '_his_.'

And when he voiced it to the other, it _couldn't _have been just the wind that fluttered in the night air.

When Jack caught sight of the collar around the other's neck, he was reminded of just how silly that thought must've been to the Myth.

.

It _bothered _him—for some reason, it _just _did.

Because it couldn't be this boy—it _just _couldn't. His Myth—_yes, __**his**_**—**was merely a _lure_. He wasn't to _blame—_just an instrument of a much _greater _and _darker _force.

Because he _couldn't _be dangerous. Not…not after Jack got to know him.

Or, at the very least, he got to know that he as a great listener. And sometimes, they'd do more than just _talk _(or rather, Jack talk and him just listen, adding on his own reactions to whatever account or tale Jack was giving).

Like last night—Jack sat down on a fallen log and the other boy joined him. It was a strange fascination Jack had with the collar—or maybe it was more of an _itch_ beneath his skin to try to _pry it off the other's neck_—but the moment he tried to reach for it, his story-book monster looked affronted and jumped away.

And Jack didn't know _why _but that expression amused him all the more. He then spent the night chasing after him, fascinated by how the other effortlessly glided across the clearing.

There was a shriek, somewhere far off, muffled by foliage and dense fog, but it might've been just his imagination.

It didn't come from his Myth as he almost caught him for the tenth time that night, that's for sure.

.

He dreamed about kissing him once.

It scared him, more than anything.

He'd seen that mouth pull into a frown, a scowl when Jack offended him for some reason of another, and sometimes this dry-tight-lipped expression when Jack said something particularly dumb. Sometimes, though, Jack was sure he'd seen him smile as well—small and fleeting but still just as wonderful as every expression his Myth took.

But in that dream—_oh _he had never seen that mouth gasping in want, red with kissing and slicked with saliva, nor had Jack ever seen that mouth open with a sharp cry of pleasure as Jack moved his lips _down, down, down_ _his skin—_

Jack shivered, an evident ache between his legs.

He had never desired men before. But this hardly counted.

_But his Myth wasn't __**human**__, now was he?_

_._

_._

.

Jack sighed, a quivering heartbeat like frantic wings behind a gilded cage—_love_ he thinks. _It must be love_ and tonight—_tonight _he _felt _it in the air, _knew _it in his bones, and felt it _pulse_ in his blood. And it didn't matter if the other boy didn't know it—was unaware of his feelings _because Jack will change that and he'll enjoy making that change too_, and the bothersome noise in the background shouldn't matter either.

Somewhere, a child screamed, but Jack could only give a smile, shy, hesitant, as nerves lit on fire as his fingers grazed the other's hand—holding the flighty creature there with naught but curiosity and the emotion Jack clearly displayed for the story-book monster to see.

It was Jack's words, but there was something in the other's eyes too, that though he didn't speak, he meant the same thing:

"_**I've got you." **_

_**.**_

.

((_Oh but the __**screams—**__the __**screams**__! They echo through the night, sliding through shadows and dancing through moonbeams as the voices carried off, further and __**further**__ where only nightmares could reach, where daylight was a mere memory, a warmth phantom on their skin as the cold sliced deep into innocent flesh with only __**fear **__burning their little bodies from the inside-out, a fragile world of innocence turned topsy-turvy—_))

But none of that mattered—not at all. Shivers ran down his spine but the _entranced _teen could only _sigh _in adulationbecause his lovely Fairytale gave him that ghostly _hint _of a smile and it's everything he ever needed.

((_One could say—_))

He had been taunted too long, illusions dancing behind his eyes at every blink of darkness, visions of forest-green eyes sparked with desire, a lithe body pressed against his own, and cold, cold flesh warmed by his own fervor as his fingers traced against each mark littering the skin of his very own Myth.

((_It was almost __**maddening**_**.**))

And maybe it was—_laughably_, _ironically, treacherously—_ so. Because _love _was _mad_, wasn't it? So who could blame him, _him, _amere_ victim, _a mere_ besotted fool, _a_ hopeless _and_ hapless __**prey**__, _when he caged the unearthly boy before him, trapped between the rough bark of a rotting oak and Jack's loving_loving__**loving**_gaze.

With his brain so drunk on this precious poison, Jack took a _chance_, fell into his _desires_ and—_kissed him_!

And _oh, _it was the stuff of story-books with the _perfect_ way the others' lips molded to his own and with a frightening _need _he crushed the other boy to him, not willing to let a single atom separate the two because the second the smaller boy opened his mouth, Jack couldn't help—couldn't _stop—_but taste_moan__**devour**_the offering before him—sweeter than the most illicit ambrosia and more addicting than _sin_ itself and _oh _how had Jack ever _lived _without it?

Fire flowed in his veins at the molten taste, night air cooling like rain against his skin while the addictive press of his Fairytale's mouth slanted against his lured him like silk and trapped him like steel. The thought frightened him, for some reason, but at the metallic taste mixing in with his _**Monster's**_ heady flavor and the slightest _whimper _that was swallowed by their kiss, the thought was buried without a moment's hesitation.

Jack was in near _agony _as the other drew away, a coy tongue-tip peeking out between kiss-bruised lips to soothe the hurt of an overeager _bite_ Jack had frenziedly left without knowing. There was a _coy _look in those eyes—_dangerous, __**hungry**__, don'tdon'tdon'tdon't—_ illuminated prettily in the moonlight. It made Jack's breath catch and a wave of arousal and _need _washed over him to have this _**devilish **_creature back in his arms, breathless against him as Jack drove into that lovely, lithe body and wrench that _**wretched**__ collar _away and brand his _own_ mark onto the other's flesh,_ forcing _those whimpers out of his pretty, reddened lips, hear him _moan, gasp, __**cry out for moremoremoremoremore**_in the way Jack had only _fantasized _and _dreamed_.

As though tasting his thoughts in the air, there is a near _chastising_ look in those forest-green eyes—_secrets—these woods were full of them—get away, get away __**now **__before—_ and he's gone.

But Jack _feels _more than _hears_ his beloved Myth behind him and as he turned, it _might _have been a trick of pale ide's night, it _might _have been his own lovelorn delusion, it _might _have been _a warning, a __**challenge, **__don't come __**closer**_**, **_**DON'T COME NEAR IT—RUN, RUN, RUNRUNRUNRUNRUN**__, _but with the slightest curve of his lips, a _look_ of _come find me_ thrown over his shoulder, and Jack knew this was his demise.

But excitement and _hellfire_ surged through his senses as he tore after the fleeting image of a coquettish smile and an impish gleam in eyes of ancient lands, leading the stumbling figure to chase after reveries and nightmares, _further_ and _further_ into the darkest heart of the woods.

.

Spires towered over the small figure, ancient etchings sprawled across the forest floor. Inky blackness gazed down onto the cove, where not even the moon's sentinel lights would reach. Gales crashed against the trees, howling into the voids far beyond, so much so that the boy lying on the altar below took notice of the figures encroaching the clearing.

But…even without the violent winds, it wasn't as though the boy—_or what was __**left **__of him—_took notice.

((_Dull eyes, mouth shut tight, __**cold—**__so, so, __**cold**_**—**_**sleep**__, just sleep, _**something cooed**_**, **__sleep and morning will come and away you go from this __**dark, dark **__place where you'll only visit in your loneliest days and haziest dreams._))

The Piper stepped lightly on the marked grounds, aware and aversive of the sigils scarred against the land with a familiar figure to the child trailing after him, movements in tandem, eyes trained solely on the flitting form of the sinister sylph before him in a focused and dazed _trance_, not unlike the motionless boy.

And if Jack paid heed of his _dear_, _little_ cousin there, not twenty feet away—

Well, the fact was that he _**didn't**_.

.

If Jack chased him endlessly for hours, he didn't know. If Jack had to chase him until the end of his days, _he didn't care_. Those thoughts were powerful, but so was this _suffocating_ emotion that held fast within the very core of his being. He'd _chase_ his Beloved, follow his tracks, _hunting _those brilliant eyes, a _mad_ dog scenting blood-spilled _prey_. And he'd _capture, cage, secure and __**seize **_him before he could flit away, slipping through Jack's grip and into the night because—this little Myth was…_His—hishishishishis__**his**_—in a way the haunting other boy could only be—the only way he was _meant _to be.

Cold, _cold _eyes of blue fell on the _collar, _resting heavily on the other's neck—_a leash, a __**noose**_, tying him to _another_ and Jack—Jack couldn't _**take it**_**. **

"Come with me," Jack said—_begged__**PLEADED.**_

The other boy turned to him, something almost like confusion marring his brow, but a quietness in those green eyes. And Jack, _Jack _could only mourn how such a reaction resulted from extensive conditioning—

A mad dog in pursuit of a Pavlovian hound.

"Please…I'd take you away from here—away from _whatever_ that put that on you." And as Jack breathed those words, he imagined he'd sing them to the heavens, cry them out from the depths of hell, wherever it would take him—so long as he had his _One_ by his side. "Stay with me. **Be with me.**"

Contemplation—something in Jack soared at the wondering look the other gave, solemn, serious—

_((Beautiful_.

_Oh, he was beautiful—lovely, more lovely than all the world Jack had seen through his own eyes and more lovely than everything his eyes will ever see—__**trapped, captive**__to another—the only blemish on his ethereal skin, the only __**imperfection **__of his entire being to Jack and __**no, **__it was __**unacceptable**__—to hold such a creature and perversely display him with cold metal like a __**branded animal—**_))

But it was too bad Jack had not paid attention to the cruel _twist _of his lips.

_Set him free _something cooed. It coaxed the words out of his mind, the budding of an epiphany, the inklings of a revolution— and Jack knew at that moment, he'd face hell-fire, damnation, spilling blood—his _own _and _others'. _

It wholly drowned the niggling screams of _**He's collared—he's DANGEROUS, he's LEASHED for a REASON, meant to be LOCKED AWAY— run, runrunRUNRUN—**_because those were such _silly _little thoughts with words that were strung together in a way Jack couldn't possibly _begin _to comprehend.

There was no reason for his Beloved to be tied to another. Because his _darling, his beloved, his __**one**__, _needn't be possessed except by one who gave himself _wholly_ and **willingly** to him.

((_A devoted pawn—_))

It was so small—the voice that followed; so much so that Jack had thought it a daydream—except—except, even in his reveries, he had never heard a sound so sweet: "_You'd...you'd do that for me_?"

"O-of course!" He could barely register his own words as they flew past his lips, eager, _desperate _to hear the other again. "I don't care—what is it you need me to do? _Want _me to do?" Jack felt his heart near-fit to burst "_Anything_— absolutely _anything_!" He'd promise his_ everything_ to the other. "I'd lie—I'd steal—I'd _kill—!_"

_He already had his heart anyways. _

"I'd give my _life_," Jack breathed, his breath stuttering like he had been caught with a _lie_.

Softly that even the wind could carry its weight, his Darling murmured, **intent** in his _lovely _green eyes:

"_You_ _would_ _**die**_ for _me_?"

He choked out his response, a vibrant and ecstatic—_forced, blinded, bound, no choice, __**no **__**say**__— _"_**Yes**_!"— a confirmation, his named penned on a dotted line and one part of him too far to reach now wondered if Faust had felt the same—the same _fear _and _**regret**_ Jack had felt at that very moment.

Because at that, Hiccup smiled, _hideous_, _terrifying_, with a perverse _hunger _in those ancient eyes, alight with a wickedness that had very _nearly_ broken Jack from his spell.

_**Move **_his instincts screamed but his legs couldn't carry the weight of all his mistakes.

_Nearly—_

But still he stood, still as a grave, eyes _manic_ with love_lovelove__**lovelovelove**_as his beloved story-book _**monster**_ inched ever closer, that _lovely _(_horrific, grotesque, __**victorious**_) smile stretched wider and wider as he said:

_But it was too late—_

"_**Promise?**_"

.

.

.

"_Please_, _be_ _patient_," the Piper cooed; amongst the dark not a creature stirred—but _He_ was watching; _He_ always was.

_Watching and waiting._

Not for long though; it had taken some time, far longer than the Piper had anticipated—

((_He should have known better—known not to play but the boy had been such a __**fun **__little thing that there was simply no resisting it_))

—but all the _Parts_ were ready. He gave a mockery of a grin at the small collection, trailing a thin finger across his harvest.

_Joy—_

The little girl down the road, _just _a bit past the barn with its rotting wood and the undisturbed carcasses, a festering disease that wafted its toxins to an open bedroom window to a smiling child with withering lungs.

_Sorrow—_

The boy across the lake, perhaps a bit slow, but that wasn't his fault—his mother hadn't known she was with child at the time.

_Anger—_

The twins_ who weren't really twins_ not knowing that they had savagely _killed _the third to ripen and grow with the excess nutrients, fitting snugly in the womb alongside a stunted and stillborn sister.

_Pain— _

It wasn't like she needed it; far from an act of mercy because it wasn't as though she had much longer to live anyways. Not with _it_ growing inside her.

_Memory—_

He'd want to forget those nights with an empty house and an Uncle with too much drink in his blood—_that_ might have been the closest act of _mercy _the Piper committed.

_Voice—_

It was so lovely…he had wished to hear its harmony echo forever, letting his cries paint the forest grounds with dripping terror—the aweing cadence in those desperate and panicked tones: "_I'm scared! Let me go! __**HELP ME**__! MOM—MOM __**HELP **__**ME **__**MOM**__! JACK! __**JACK!**__"_

—but his _Beloved _was in far more need of its song than his own amusement.

_And—__**Love**__—_

Oh, but that was his own gift…a part of himself that abided by his _One_ so _truly _and _dearly_, the ugly little emotion that smelt of hellfire and burned down his throat like hot cinders when his Darling hungered for more, _more_, and _**more**_ of what the Piper freely gave 'til there wasn't a morsel of it left.

A breath to his neck wrought shivers down the columns of his spine.

He leaned back to the body behind him, the Piper happily caged in his Beloved's arms.

((_Trapped—trapped as all the little fragments collected, bottled and branded, rightly so, belonging, devoted, utterly, wholly—_

_**Inescapably**__.))_

Just as the Piper wished it. He nuzzled against the form, a warmth flaring in his belly at the needle-points trailing drips of burgundy across his flesh. A mark of _love _and a mark of _possession_.

Yes, almost done—almost ready, the pieces falling into place, a nightmare begotten of one's beginning and another's end—of a _love _induced in poisons and moonlit nights and _taken_ with malicious commands that whispered in his bones and tugged at the very strings of his soul. It was the final component of the assemblage:

_A __**heart—**_

And yes…_love_ him, he did.

((_Or was it __**hunger?**_))

The Piper presented a still-beating heart, red in his hand, pulsing with a repulsive and doleful tune. He offered it coyly, eyes bright as toxic waxing moons without a spark of remorse, "_Is it good enough to take_?"

His One gave a crooked smile, _sinister, dark, __**hungry**_, gleaming teeth taking bite out of the still-beating organ, tissue and tendon tearing crimson pitifully at the snap of its jaws, scarlet splattering messily against the hand from which he devoured, running down a pale arm in rivulets, perfect for a fervent tongue to chase. And all the while, the Piper watched on, utter _adoration_ and sickly _**obsession **_in his eyes as his Beloved offered the remains, delicately balanced upon a hand coated with crimson, drip-drip-dripping from sharpened claws.

The Piper licked his lips and pressed his mouth against the quivering, lovelorn organ—the agony deliciously imbedded in muscle and metronome—a _mockery _of a _kiss_.

_They feast._

* * *

><p>.<p>

_I cherished, you perished.*_

_The world's been nightmarished_

.

* * *

><p>*= the ending lines are by Lemony Snicket (Daniel Handler) written in Dedications for Beatrice Baudelaire in <em>A Series of Unfortunate Events<em>'s last book, _The End._

An element from the previous chapter: it's not a collar, signifying ownership, but a torque: a symbol of power and nobility; Hiccup was never trapped. Maybe. Was this a continuity to the previous story? Who knows.

Hiccup as the Piper:

Pied Piper of Hamelin: Originally believed to have represented plagues and catastrophes that brought death to young children. _There was a pattern of victims he chose._

Pied Piper (definition as a metaphor): one that offers strong but delusive enticement.

Yes, the dialogue between Hiccup and Jack was from "Addams Family Values" (1993); I saw it multiple times during October of last year and I had been dying to use it.


End file.
